


Howdy Honey

by chief_johnson



Series: Little Devils [20]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Birthday Sex, F/F, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson
Summary: It's Amanda's 41st birthday and Olivia is pulling out all the stops, but Detective Rollins has a few surprises of her own lined up for her beloved captain. (Devilishverse. Fluff and nonsense, with some smut at the end.)
Relationships: Olivia Benson/Amanda Rollins
Series: Little Devils [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1455775
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	1. Mustang Sally

**Author's Note:**

> Been kicking around the idea for parts of this fic for quite a while, but they didn't come together until... certain other elements fell into place. Sorry, I know that's vague, I just don't want to get too spoilery. Anyway. I was trying to finish this in time for Amy's birthday, which also didn't happen. But hey, I'm only, like, a week late? Happy birthday, Amy! I'm splitting this one into four chapters. As usual, contains references to the long fic. Have fun deciding what they are. :D It's very fluffy this time, guys, with some smut towards the end, but don't worry, I haven't abandoned the angst fics. They're still my favorite. I've just been writing so much of it in the long fic, it's nice to have these shorter stories to lighten my (and Rolivia's) mood. Oh, and this chapter and the title of the fic were inspired by a tweet of mine about a jacket I randomly saw on Pinterest, worn by a model who looked freakishly similar to Amanda from behind (pic is included in the cover art). Read, review, enjoy.

* * *

[ ](https://imgur.com/SuezjdO)

* * *

**Chapter 1:** Mustang Sally

**. . .**

_Howdy Honey! Shall we begin?  
_ _Your city girl wants to take you for a spin  
_ _So strut on down to her old ‘65  
_ _(Put on your walkin’ boots) We’ll go for a drive_  
 _Your Cap’n’s only order: “Bring your wits”  
And on your big day here’s some fringe benefits_

She understood most of the clue, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why Olivia had stolen her cowboy boots. With no further instruction than “Southern casual” and the proffered envelope, she’d gotten dressed—hip-huggin’ stonewash jeans with the cozy seat and embroidered pockets that attracted Olivia’s hands like magnets; Western-style rockabilly shirt in black, skulls and rose vines stitched along the bodice in white and red relief; messy side-pony just for the heck of it—only to discover that her favorite shitkickers were nowhere to be found in the closet or under the bed. 

Honestly, it was an aggressively Southern outfit (except for the boots), but she knew the captain liked her Georgia peach extra peachy. 

Opting for a pair of suede booties in a low heel that would inevitably garner a few short jokes, Amanda trotted swiftly from their apartment and down to the parking garage via stairwell. She was much too giddy and impatient to wait on the elevator; besides, elevator rides were no fun anymore if Olivia wasn’t in the car with her. 

She did, however, discover Olivia in a different sort of a car altogether. The top was down on the ‘65 Mustang—an ambitious choice for New York in the spring, but Amanda had no complaints, especially with the captain lounging in the driver’s seat like a queen on her throne. A very confident, very sexy queen who filled the space around her to the fullest, one arm draped along the window ledge, the other thrown casually across the steering wheel. A pair of Ray-Ban aviators were perched atop her thick, chestnut mane, all tousled waves and pretty tendrils. 

She’d worn the leather biker jacket, sleek as black oil and embellished in glinting silver, which had once inspired Amanda to tongue her top teeth coyly and, in her breathiest Sandy Olsson voice, remark, “Tell me about it, stud.” 

Underneath the jacket, Olivia was snug as a bug in a gray angel hair sweater, partnered with the no-nonsense, straight-legged jeans she preferred (although she had cuffed the hems, exposing a knot of lovely golden ankle) and her Adidas trainers. It was an effortless and cool look that already had Amanda salivating, even before she hurdled the passenger side door and plunked down beside her hot date. 

Who said forty-one years meant you had to stop showing off your agility and precision?

“Where we goin’, foxy lady?” she asked brightly, flashing a grin both toothy and dimpled. Her secret weapon, but also an indicator of her barely contained excitement. If this birthday was anywhere near as good as the last—and the handwritten clue on embossed stationery seemed like a positive sign—she was in for a real treat.

Olivia eyed her with open amusement, caught off guard only for a moment by the lack of preamble. She swept an approving gaze over Amanda’s ensemble and hitched up one corner of her mouth in a wry smile. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, pardner.”

“You said dress Southern. Figured it was ‘bout time I dusted this baby off.” Amanda smoothed the sleeves of her stiff cotton shirt, then plucked rakishly at the tips of the collar. James Dean meets honkytonk. She’d owned the shirt since freshman year of college and was rather pleased to find it still fit like a glove.

“Well, once again you have exceeded all my wildest, rootin’-tootin’ expectations,” Olivia said, fingertips poised beneath Amanda’s chin like she was admiring a delicate jewel suspended on a fine gold chain. 

Amanda craned her neck and kissed the heel of Olivia’s outstretched palm, right at the cleft. To her delight, the hand twitched, goosebumps springing up on the swath of wrist exposed beneath the leather cuff. Secret: her tough-as-nails captain was more sensitive to touch than a sea-anemone, its tendrils wavering in a dreamy underwater dance. 

“We don’t actually say that, you know,” she gruffed, longing to take a nip at the cashmere skin in such close proximity to her lips, to trace her tongue along the branch of blue and purple veins that skittered there. Later, if she was lucky. (And she hadn’t bagged her captain by skill or by chance.) “Never in my life have I uttered the words rootin’-tootin’. Word? See, I don’t even know the proper compound . . . whatever.”

“I think it’s a hyphenate,” Olivia said, and reached into the backseat, rummaging for something unseen. Her tongue peeked from between her lips, a small, pink hatchling straining its head from the nest. God, Amanda loved her. “And I hate to burst your NYC-transplant bubble, but you totally just said it.”

“Dudn’t count. I’s repeating you.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Does not.”

And they wondered where their children got their tendency to bicker for hours on end—Noah and Jesse, at least. Little Matilda was as compliant and amiable as ever. 

“You wanna argue with me,” Olivia asked, retracting her arm and bringing with it a large, rectangular box wrapped in rose-gold paper, speckled with shiny stars, “or you wanna open your presents?”

“Presents?” Amanda enunciated the last few letters that pluralized the already appealing word, shoulders bunched around her ears in anticipation. She drumrolled her fingertips together like a greedy old miser in a Christmas cartoon and, receiving a flick of the eyebrow from her sardonic seatmate, declared, “Presents!”

“I thought as much.” Olivia handed over the box—fairly light despite the bulge at its center—and pretended to recoil when Amanda seized it into her own lap, gave it a preliminary shake, shredded the paper in two seconds flat. “Happy birthday, little pretty,” she chuckled, looping an escaped blonde coil behind Amanda’s ear to better view her face.

“You did not,” Amanda stated, the lid in her hands, hovering above the open box and the indigo denim folded inside it. 

She’d seen the jacket online weeks ago, added it to her shopping cart, then backed off at the last minute. She needed another denim jacket like she needed a hole in the head, and even if this one practically had her name written all over it—actually, it read “Howdy Honey” in golden thread across the back yoke, under the downturned collar and above the wingspan of black fringe that ran the entire back seam—she couldn’t justify spending one hundred thirty-eight dollars (plus shipping) of her hard-earned cash on something so frivolous. She had three kids and a hungry captain to feed. 

But oh, she’d wanted it. At the time, she hadn’t even thought Olivia was listening to her lamentations. The only response she got to her canted laptop screen was a sidelong glance from behind bold-framed reading glasses and a nondescript “hm.”

“I did.” Olivia looked mighty pleased with herself—as she should. She puckered up for the kiss Amanda launched forward to stamp on her lips, and grinning just as widely, batted at the fringe that did an energetic hula when Amanda unfurled the jacket with a snap. “It’s hideous. You’ll look adorable.”

Amanda tsked. She was already sliding her arms into the sleeves and fluffing the underbrush of baby-fine hair that grew below her ponytail, rescuing it from the collar. The jacket fit perfectly and complimented the rest of her outfit as if she had matched it on purpose. Damn right she looked adorable.

“Thanks, baby. I—”

Before she could say how much she loved the gift, another arrived in her lap—this one also scavenged from the backseat, and heavier than the first, though squatter and not as lumpy. Same pink-champagne paper, a resplendent pink bow fizzing on top. 

It took longer to open because of the cloth ribbon cinched around each side of the box, and eventually Olivia reached over to assist, popping the whole thing loose with an expert yank. The strands of ribbon fluttered from her hand like gangling spider legs. She set the bow atop Amanda’s head, arranging the streamers as if she were straightening a veil. 

Amanda recognized the box she uncovered by its Cowboy Pro logo, designed to resemble tooled leather, and she immediately let out a whoop that bounced from wall to wall inside the cavernous garage. “I know what’s in here,” she said, giving the box a vigorous shake. Its contents thumped against the cardboard, trying to kick their way free. 

“Aww. I guess I’ll just have to return them, then . . . ” Olivia extended both hands, snickering when the box was jerked out of reach.

“Nuh-uh!” Amanda cast aside the lid and unearthed the cowboy boots from the protective layers of crackling tissue paper and foam. They were indeed the pair she had wanted—beetle-black with a sparkling gold inlay of winged hearts that reminded her of Daryl Dixon’s vest in _The Walking Dead_ —pointed out to Olivia in passing during a shopping trip for the kids’ school shoes. Again, not the time to be buying things for herself. But she’d lusted after the footwear for at least half an hour, while Olivia stuffed their children’s feet into patent leather of all shapes and sizes; and this time, when she made her sales pitch to the frazzled captain, she got a full-on glower. Maybe even a harrumph.

She hugged the boots to her chest now, reveling in the scent of brand-spankin’ new leather. “Mine. No take backs.”

“You sure? You sure?” Olivia repeated the question each time she nipped at the boots with crab-claw fingers, and chuckled each time Amanda dodged her advances. Eventually she surrendered, leaning back against the headrest with a fond smile as she watched Amanda ohh and ahh over the fine craftsmanship of her new favorite shitkickers. 

“You like, sweetheart?” she asked, a hand finding its way into Amanda’s hair, fingernails scritching lightly at the back of her scalp. 

Amanda nodded enthusiastically, flicking her suede booties into the footwell below and replacing them with her rough and rowdy pals, Daryl and Dixon. Slouching down in her seat, she hoisted one leg and then the other onto the dashboard, latching them at the ankle. A risky move in Olivia’s pristine pony, but the boots weren’t dirty and it was her big day. She was pretty sure she could get away with it. 

“I love.” 

The posture earned her an eye roll from the captain, and a snort when she rotated her ankles, toes tapping at the air—an impromptu happy dance. Nonetheless, Olivia withdrew her phone from an inner pocket of her biker jacket and snapped a quick photo. “Good. Now get your feet off my dash.”

Well, it was fun while it lasted. Amanda righted herself and dusted off the thighs of her jeans like she’d just dismounted a real mustang. “So, is this why I couldn’t find my old boots anywhere?” she asked, still dancing a little jig on the rubber floor mat. Heel, toe, heel, toe, sliiide.

“Mm-hmm. They’re in the trunk.” Olivia hitched a thumb over her shoulder nonchalantly, as if taking your significant other’s shoes hostage was a normal, everyday occurrence.

“Stole ‘em right out from under me, you wily varmint.” Amanda tipped sideways and formed her lips into a duckbill, soliciting another kiss. She got it—soundly—and dropped back in her seat, sighing with deep satisfaction, legs kicked out to admire her snazzy attire. “Thanks again, darlin’. You didn’t have to spend so much, but I sure do ‘preciate it. Best gifts I’ve gotten since . . . well, since my last birthday.”

It was supposed to be a joke; the gifts for her last birthday had included the lighthouse necklace she seldom took off (the charm was tucked inside her shirt that very moment, a sweetly familiar weight against her chest, the way it felt when one of the kids snuck a hand into hers during intense animated battles), a trip to Coney Island, and her first time with Olivia. Definitely one for the books. 

But as Amanda started to toss the shoebox into the backseat, the captain cleared her throat loudly and cast a pointed look inside the empty package. Empty, except for the envelope—textured light-peach cardstock, like the first—which Amanda had overlooked in her haste to guard her treasure.

“More?” she asked in wonder, as she dived in and thumbed open the unsealed flap.

“Oh, honey child,” said Olivia, lowering her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose and keying on the engine, “we’re just getting started.”

**. . .**


	2. Stuck on You

**. . .**

_I have a feeling—call it Just an Inkling—  
_ _That under your skin you've got a twinkling  
_ _For a permanent contract, cannot be breached  
_ _You're lucky I love you, my sweet Georgia peach  
_ _There's a first time for everything for this girl from the city  
_ _Even voluntary disfigurement for her little pretty_

Okay, so that had been stretching it a bit, but you try rhyming forty-one clues while simultaneously planning an elaborate treasure hunt, raising three small children, commanding a squad of three adult-size children, and trying to keep up with a sexy, sassy blonde spitfire.

In the end, Olivia had realized that forty-one— though a prime and highly attractive age for a woman (especially _her_ woman)—was an ambitious number for a treasure hunt. She'd whittled it down to five envelopes, each one to be awarded after Amanda figured out the previous riddle, with some standbys in the glove box, should plans go awry.

Five ought to be enough to keep them good and occupied for most of the day, and if not, she knew how to improvise. She hadn't cooked up this scheme by being an unimaginative bore.

"Fringe benefits." Amanda snorted out a little laugh that somehow had a twang to it, and flapped her arms, looking like a crow about to take flight with all that dangling black fringe. "I just got that one."

Luckily, she had solved the second clue faster, or at least part of it. Her fists raised triumphantly overhead, she'd shouted the name of the tattoo parlor ("Just an Inkling! Woo!") when she recited the lines out loud, and turned to Olivia with the same wide-eyed astonishment as their middle child at the candy store. _Any kind? Really?_

But Jesse's mama had a craving of another sort, a much more expensive and painful one. Three weeks earlier, as they lay tangled up in sweaty sheets and each other, Olivia trailing her fingertip over the name inscribed on the blonde's arm—slender and pale as birch—Amanda had announced, "I'm in the mood to get another one."

Olivia made some joke or another about multiple orgasms, but she'd known Amanda was referring to a tattoo. She had no strong feelings about body art herself (talk to her again when Noah wanted his first tattoo or piercing), it just wasn't something she felt the need for, beyond the pierced ears she'd snuck out of the apartment to get at age fourteen. By then, she was already years behind her peers, and her mother had been apoplectic when she saw the tiny studs: "You don't do things to your body unless _I_ say so, young lady."

She supposed she could relate to going under the needle as an act of rebellion—those pinpoint amethyst studs were chosen because they were her birthstone (someone might as well celebrate the occasion, and she'd read that the ancient Greeks once believed amethyst protected against drunkenness)—but it had been years since she felt the need to rebel. Practically since the time of the ancient Greeks.

"It doesn't have to be about that," Amanda had countered, twining a lock of brown hair around one spindly finger, the others skating languidly across Olivia's skin. "It's a form of self-expression. Should mean somethin' special to _you_. And it doesn't have to be where people can see it. Personally, I think it'd be kinda sexy if you had one here . . . or here . . . "

The detective had spent the next half hour mapping Olivia's body with invisible ink. If her designs were met, there would hardly be a single patch of natural skin tone left under Olivia's dress blues. And while it hadn't changed Olivia's mind completely, it had given her something to contemplate. A week later, she'd booked an appointment at the parlor: April 21st, 2 o'clock in the afternoon, back-to-back sessions. If she was going to participate in this ancient scarification ritual, Amanda damn well better be there to hold her hand through it.

She hadn't expected to be so nervous. Deep down, she could guess why her stomach felt untethered, like a kite wheeling in midair after the string snapped, careening towards parts unknown—and it wasn't about the pain. She didn't like needles; didn't like them, but didn't fear them, either. And her threshold for pain was "exceptionally high," according to a doctor who beamed like he was paying her a compliment when she didn't flinch during treatment for . . . one of her injuries. ( _Childbirth would be a snap for you_ , he'd confided. _Are you offering?_ she'd almost snapped right back.)

Deep down she knew. And she chose to ignore it. Today was about Amanda, the best thing to come into her life since her children, and the person who seemed capable of undoing all those past hurts, if anyone could.

She maneuvered the blonde onto the curb in front of the entrance to Just an Inkling. The name really cinched it for her, she had to admit. Call it a holdover from being raised by an English professor mother, but she loved good wordplay. Almost as much as she loved torturing Amanda.

She kept her hands over the detective's eyes for several moments longer than was strictly necessary—or at all necessary, really, since Amanda had already figured out where they were going—and only drew them aside when the younger woman began to prance in place, practically champing at the bit. Her boot heels clacked the concrete, her nostrils flared with each impatient sniff. Excited, Amanda was a thoroughbred at the gate.

"Aw, babe, you got me a dirty old building for my birthday?" she teased, scrunching her fingers at Olivia's hip, which she'd claimed to need for navigational purposes as she was guided along the sidewalk. "I'm touched."

"You'll be touched, all right." Olivia swatted her forward with a palm to the rear. "Smartass."

It _was_ dirty on the outside, but then, they did live in New York City. The garbage had garbage. What mattered was the inside, and the little shop was every bit as immaculate in person as it had appeared on the website: chrome fixtures that glinted like a polished sword, winking back at the bright overheads; a large, circular settee in cherry-red vinyl with a tufted cone at its center; shiny chessboard flooring, the black and white tiles creating an optical illusion of constant movement.

On the whole, it was rather dizzying to the eye, and with all the neon and pops of color, Olivia felt like she had just stepped into a Wurlitzer jukebox—an impression heightened by the Big Band music trumpeting from a stereo system behind the counter—but at least it looked sanitary. She had done her research. No health violations, all license requirements met.

Most of the artist portfolios boasted celebrity clients, including Angelina Jolie, Taye Diggs, Lady Gaga, and the entire Willis clan (even expatriate Demi Moore). Olivia didn't put much stock in that sort of thing, but she had been particularly impressed with a Madonna-endorsed artist by the unlikely name of Edwina Mandrake, whose work was better suited to canvas than the confines of human skin.

And here she was now, tromping out to greet them in a pair of black-cherry Doc Martens that complimented the settee they had never gotten the chance to settee upon. (Amanda would have groaned at that one, but Olivia smiled to herself, feeling clever.)

Edwina, or "Eddie," as the embroidered patch on her pinstriped mechanic's shirt read, was exceptionally tall—over six feet, by the looks of it—and exceptionally pretty. A stripe of red bandana was knotted around her dark barrel roll hairdo, Rosie the Riveter style. Her candy-apple lipstick made her blinding white teeth even brighter. She flashed the lips and the teeth at Olivia.

"Captain Benson, I presume."

"Yes. Hi." For no reason Olivia could ascertain, she suddenly felt a little star-struck, as if she were meeting one of those celebrities for whom she supposedly cared not an iota. She stuck out her hand at an awkward angle, flushing when Edwina grasped it in both of hers like she was catching an anxious bird. "And you're Eddie. Edwina?"

_Oh God, just kill me now._

"Eddie's good. Nice to finally meet you face to face. You're even prettier than your microscopic Google icon."

"Well." Olivia laughed off the comment. She hadn't changed the photo since her promotion to sergeant; that was how infrequently she logged into her private Gmail account.

Their correspondences had been brief, polite, and littered with far too many exclamation points. Just as she was wondering if her real life personality would be a disappointment to someone so youthful and vibrant, she felt Amanda's arm loop around her waist. Not under her jacket with the discretion they typically exercised in public, but over it, hand close enough to slip into a pocket, fitting Olivia snugly to her side. _Mine_.

It must have been the mention of a secret online communication. That was still a sore spot for both of them, though Amanda—true to her word—was working on her behavior. Olivia could do the same.

Clearing her throat subtly, she flicked the hair from her shoulder and turned on a little of the Captain Benson ice for which she was famous. Ms. Mandrake wasn't the only one whose reputation preceded her. "Eddie, this is Amanda Rollins," she said, a hand solid at the blonde's back. "I told you about her."

"Oh yeah, I remember!" Eddie pumped Amanda's hand like she was extracting water from a deep Georgia well. "You know, when she said 'prettiest detective in NYC,' I thought she was just exaggerating. I stand corrected. Seriously, I can't wait to work on this ivory skin."

Now it was Olivia's turn to activate the possessive girlfriend arm. Amanda beamed more brightly than the chrome accents and Eddie's preternaturally white teeth.

* * *

Amanda went first. The ivory skin and all. Hers would probably take the longest, Eddie determined, due to the amount of shading. Olivia's selection was more straightforward, minimalistic. She had chosen it from Pinterest, of all places. Who could have guessed that one day Olivia Benson would be trolling social media, in search of tattoo inspiration for herself and her girlfriend? Not Olivia Benson.

The guidelines she'd emailed Eddie for Amanda's tattoo were much more original: _The prettiest peach you can imagine. Realistic enough to sink my teeth into. I want the juices to drip down my chin._ (She may have used a less provocative visual in the final draft.)

It was risky and a little presumptuous, choosing your partner's tattoo for her, but Olivia had been fairly certain Amanda would approve the design—"Somethin' Georgia-ish . . . but sexy," was the only feedback offered when Olivia casually inquired what sort of tattoo the detective _might_ want, _if_ she ever got another—and Eddie "100% understood and agreed!" with the stipulation that the entire piece could be scrapped last minute.

But Amanda's eyes glittered azure blue and her head bobbed exuberantly when the colorful sketch, rendered as vivid as a photograph in colored pencil, was unveiled. Sure, they could size it down, said Eddie, although it would lose some of the subtler details. That was fine, said Amanda, trotting off towards the pleated red velvet curtain as if she were Alice, about to enter Wonderland. Instead, it was a studio whose layout reminded Olivia vaguely of a hair salon. She eyed the adjustable hydraulic chairs with apprehension, until Amanda tugged at the cuff of her jacket the way Tilly did when she wanted Mommy to hold her.

"I asked if you like the spot I picked," Amanda repeated, her voice softening to warm, soothing honey as she studied Olivia studying the room—especially the chairs.

Olivia breathed deeply through her nose and nodded, focusing on the blonde who was shrugging out of her new denim jacket and unzipping her skinny-minny jeans. "I do," she said, and intercepted the jacket before it ended up slung over one of the life-size ceramic panthers that guarded the room. The interior decorator had really gone buck-wild in this place.

Folding the equally unusual concoction of denim and fringe over her arm, Olivia stood back and watched in amusement as Amanda peeled down the waistband of her jeans to expose a generous amount of hip; which was, in the slim detective's case, about the size of a teenage girl's. But there was nothing teenaged about the sheer teal panties she'd revealed, the back seam shadowed by the much darker one underneath. Olivia recognized the underwear as part of a lingerie set: matching racerback bustier with scalloped lace trim, sassy little garter belt with slender straps she could barely resist snapping like rubber bands.

Someone sure planned on getting lucky tonight.

And someone was definitely going to get her wish. But that clue wasn't till later.

"It's going to be . . . " She stifled a giggle—and snorted as a result—when Amanda whisked down one side of the lacy bottoms, wedging it under her right buttock. "Very sexy."

It was sexy, both in application and completion. The tiny heart-shaped fruit, no bigger than a 50-cent piece, sat plump and ripe and golden on the back of Amanda's hip, just above the subtle slope of cheek. Right where Olivia's hand naturally dovetailed when she threaded an arm around the detective's waist. Pretty peach perfection.

Or it would be, once the inflamed skin cooled. Presently it rather resembled a strawberry birthmark, puffy-edged and pink, and to be honest, that was just as enticing. The whole process took about forty-five minutes, with Eddie hunkered close to Amanda's backside, like a scholar poring over a tome in fine print. Olivia kept a close eye, under the guise of curiosity and appreciation for art; Amanda didn't even flinch.

"You ready for this, city girl?" the detective murmured, her voice a bumblebee hum in Olivia's ear. She had pulled up the extra swivel chair from another artist's empty station, spun it backwards, and straddled the seat alongside Olivia, reaching for her hand without needing to be asked.

Head bent, hair a dark widow's veil over her face, Olivia folded her lips tight and nodded. "Mm-hmm. Yes." The planking position was murder on her left shoulder—Eddie had assured her she could lie flat on the chair, now a bed, folded out like a futon—but she'd insisted on being partially upright. She needed to be upright.

"Are you sure?" Eddie asked, and there was a note of apprehension that made Olivia cringe; she didn't even have to see the stranger's face to recognize something was amiss. And vice versa. "We can take a min—"

"Just do it," Olivia gritted, squeezing Amanda's hand involuntarily. She quickly eased off, spooning the back of her hand into the blonde's palm like she was putting on a glove, and interlocking their fingers.

The buzz of the tattoo gun was the worst part. It reminded Olivia of a vibrator, normally a welcome sound that tickled her eardrums—and other places, including the roof of her mouth, oddly enough—but in this position, a tall, dark figure looming behind her, the only sense memories she could access were pain, dehydration, unimaginable hunger, unimaginable fear. Why had she picked the nape of her neck instead of the inner wrist, as originally planned?

_Because you wanted to be cool and edgy, and show off for your hot girlfriend. Your 53-year-old ass should know better._

She expected it to feel like a cigarette tip, white-hot and pulsating against her skin, and didn't realize she was holding her breath, until she started to get lightheaded. It didn't feel like a cigarette; it felt like what it was—a fucking needle puncturing holes in her flesh, between the hairline and a bony notch of spine. And people . . . paid for this?

"How you doing, hon?" Eddie asked, a few minutes in. She continued to repeat the question at five minute intervals (Olivia's watch was the one available focus object), always getting the same snipped answer—"Fine"—until eventually she knuckled down, relating that she just needed to go over the lines once more with black ink to "really make it zing."

Olivia wanted her to really shut up and really finish the tattoo, but the retracing took another ten minutes that seemed more like ten hours with her bent arms going weak and wobbly beneath her. Amanda's hand was all that kept her steady.

"Oh, thank God," she puffed, when the needle retracted from her skin like a venomous fang ("All done," Eddie announced, sounding winded) and the gun halted mid-buzz. She parted her hair as if she were a nosy neighbor peering from behind the curtains. "Um, what should I do with this?"

"Hang on, I gotcha." Amanda whipped loose her ponytail ring, swung a leg off the chair to stand, and bundled Olivia's hair into a slipshod top knot. But it held and, more importantly, so did Olivia, as Amanda helped prop her into a sitting position.

"Do you love it?" Eddie asked a moment later, a handheld mirror slanted in front of Olivia's face, providing a glimpse of the identical mirror Amanda held up behind her.

"I know I do," Amanda said, winking at Olivia's reflection.

And Olivia found that she did, too. The single line, zigzagged like the wave on a heart monitor, depicted the New York City skyline—most notably the syringe-sharp Empire State and Chrysler buildings, and Citigroup Center, with its slanted cone hat, always ready for a party. A red valentine heart, about the size and shade of a pomegranate seed, was pierced on the end of the final zag.

What better way to celebrate the city that had her heart; the city that had brought Amanda to her and earned her the rank of Detective Rollins' "city girl." Maybe one day, if she ever drummed up the nerve again, she would get a tattoo that symbolized her children, but for now, this one would do: it was home. They were her home.

The blonde grinning from ear to ear at her in the paddle-shaped mirror was a home she had never dreamed existed—full of love, laughter, and light—and which she could no longer imagine living without.

"Yeah, I love it." Olivia reached up to touch Amanda's hand on her shoulder. "I love it a lot."

**. . .**


	3. Truly Scrumptious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the anon who asked about the long fic—I'm guessing it's around 80 - 85% written. I've got a general idea of how I want it to end, but I don't want to commit to a certain number of chapters left to write, in case I decide on something different. To all—Wondering if I should continue these Little Devils in the meantime? Seems like there's not much interest.

* * *

**Chapter 3:** Truly Scrumptious

**. . .**

_Lick me, Eat me, I'm sweet as can be  
_ _And you're cute as a cupcake X 103  
_ _A parlor, a bake shop—there's all shapes and sizes  
_ _I've found us a place full of sweet compromises  
_ _All you need bring is a big sugar-cravin'  
_ _Leave the rest up to me, your NYC maven_

The rhymes were getting looser with each successive clue, but Amanda didn't mind. This one, produced for her from inside Olivia's purse, upon departure of Just an Inkling, obviously pertained to food. Birthday food, at that, which was one of Amanda's favorite kinds. After pizza and Southern fried, of course.

She had a pretty good idea what the "sweet compromises" bit referred to as well. It was that fight they had about cake versus ice cream at birthday parties. Okay, so maybe _fight_ was too strong of a word, but things definitely got heated when Olivia declared with finality that cake and ice cream had no business being served simultaneously ("The textures don't go together. It melts into the cake and makes it mushy. Plus, it hurts my teeth") and Amanda, gaping like her captain had sprouted another head, retorted that separating the two was like chips without salsa, peanut butter without jelly, cookies without milk.

After a twenty minute debate on the subject, they had finally consulted the experts: their kids. Noah thought the combination was gross; Jesse demanded cake and ice cream immediately; and that left Matilda, whose sweet-tooth still hadn't come in, as the tiebreaker. "Carrots," she requested, pointing at the fridge with a fingertip so cute, Amanda couldn't resist pretending to gobble it up.

"Well, that settles it," Olivia had said, retrieving a baggie of baby carrots from the crisper. "She obviously means carrot cake. Solo. There is no carrot ice cream. I win."

"Uh, there _is_ carrot cake ice cream. She meant both, didn't you, Tilly girl?" And though not her proudest moment—as a mother or as a mature adult—Amanda had used one of the baby carrots like a dog treat, guiding the tip up and down in front of Matilda, the child following along with an open, expectant mouth, to simulate a nod. "See? Mama's girl."

"Traitor," Olivia said, as if it were a term of endearment, and leaned over to dot a kiss into the crook of Matilda's sweet little neck. She did the same to Amanda next, only then she had burred into the nearest ear: "This isn't over, Detective Dimples. Your captain would like a word with you at twenty-two hundred hours. Sharp."

The meeting was conducted in the bedroom, and it had absolutely nothing to do with baked goods or frozen treats of any kind.

That had been their worst "fight" since late last year. _Since New Year's Eve_ , an annoying voice in Amanda's head chimed in. It sounded a bit like her mother, for reasons she didn't care to get into, and she dismissed it promptly. She knew the blissful, argument-free phase couldn't last forever; that one day they—or, most likely, she—would get tired of pulling punches, and really have it out the way they used to. But not today.

Today, they were wandering into the most fragrant confectionery Amanda's olfactory senses had ever encountered. She supposed the optics didn't hurt, either. As a kid, she adored playing Candy Land and imagining she was the ponytailed, overalled blonde girl on the box, following the rainbow trail into a magical realm of peppermint and gumdrops. Sugar Mama's—a rascally name for a sweets shop, if you asked Amanda—was that childhood dream come to life.

From the red and white striped awning above the entrance to the cotton-candy pink upholstery of the booths and soda fountain stools, colors inside the shop were more vivid than any in the real world. The walls were lined in glass silos of bulk candy, brimming with so many primaries and pastels, it made Amanda's fillings sing; on the left of the register, a tiered display case shaped like a giant cupcake was stacked top to bottom in—you guessed it—cupcakes, every flavor imaginable; to the right, another display with vats of hand-dipped ice cream like colorful, swirling potions, and on the wall behind that, like the shimmering spirits on a barroom display, the soft serve dispensers.

Forget Willy Wonka. If Queen Frostine and Princess Lolly had married and birthed an all-powerful dessert empress, Sugar Mama's on 8th would be she.

"Dear Lord," Amanda breathed, gazing around in wonderment. Her eyes teared, it was so beautiful. Or maybe that was just the powdered sugar that thickened the air. "Look at this place. How'd you find it?"

"I have my ways," Olivia said at Amanda's shoulder, a warm smile in her voice. And sure enough, it was on her lips as well when she stepped forward and pointed Amanda's gaze in the direction of a cozy two-seater near the back. "Plus, it had your name written all over it."

Above the booth, a banner of pennant flags spelled out the message _HBD AMANDA!_ in cute, curly die-cuts. A chandelier of crepe paper draped over the high-backed benches like a mutant pink spider. On the table, a place card in a silver heart-shaped holder read,

 _Reserved -  
_ _Rollins-Benson_

"Dude, when did you _do_ all this?" Amanda turned to marvel at her captain, whose face was still framed in the mussed waves that had escaped her top knot seconds after it was fashioned. Pretty enough to kiss. And so Amanda did, albeit quickly and chastely—they weren't in a stalled elevator, after all.

"For someone so observant when it comes to criminal activity, you are _shockingly_ aloof about surprise planning." Grinning down slyly, Olivia stole another peck on the lips and ushered Amanda toward the motley treats ahead. "Let's go pick your flavors, dude."

Picking a flavor turned out to be the hardest part. Too many choices. There were at least six different types of chocolate cupcakes interspersed with the vanillas, strawberries, lemons, and so on. "Chocolate, triple chocolate, devil's food, peanut butter chocolate, German chocolate, red—" Amanda skidded to a halt in the middle of reciting from the menu, written in chalk on a squeaky turntable sign. "Rum," she finished. Lame.

"You can say red velvet," Olivia said softly, but her eyes never stopped perusing the Italian creams, snickerdoodles, and pistachios. And a moment later, she looked to the barroom wall of soft serve to pick her poison. "Think I'd rather have ice cream."

Mentally kicking herself, Amanda gave the sign a brisk twirl and pushed off the domed glass display she'd been leaning on like it was the hood of Olivia's Mustang. She'd left her jeans unbuttoned, concealed by the hem of her untucked shirt, to give the fresh ink some breathing room. Only problem was, she had to hitch her pants up every few seconds. Doing just that, she stood shoulder to shoulder with Olivia, as if in solidarity, thumbs through her belt loops. "Yeah, me too."

"Huh-uh, get your cake and ice cream, love." Olivia smoothed a hand back and forth across the embroidered yoke of Amanda's jacket, then let it rest at the collar, fingertips just grazing the nape of her neck. "That's why we're here."

"Really?"

"Really."

They made their way to the decorated booth a few minutes later—Olivia, with her modest dollop of strawberry-vanilla swirl in a sugar cone; Amanda, laden with a mint chocolate chip cupcake (seven types!) drowning in at least four inches of frosting, and a dish of rocky road. Not exactly the white sheet cake and Neapolitan of her youth, but somehow she would persevere. Besides that, she got an explosive laugh from Olivia when she peeled down one side of the ruffled liner and bit into her cupcake like she was reenacting a scene from _Jaws_.

_You're gonna need a bigger napkin._

As if on command, a froth of napkin lunged at Amanda's face and latched on like the facehugger in _Alien_. (Yes, she and Olivia were on an old-school horror movie kick as of late.) The captain pinched lightly at her nose, doing everything but telling her to "blow," and opened up the napkin to show her a thick smear of green frosting when she was through wiping.

"Aw man, what a waste," said Amanda, gazing forlornly at the buttercream skid mark. She truly would have preferred to use her tongue. Olivia truly would have been appalled. "That's the best part."

"Maybe you should try using a knife and fork, like a civilized human being." Olivia indicated the silverware in its napkin papoose, a paper ring cinched at its middle, resting alongside Amanda's plate, currently serving as a platter for the rocky road.

"On a cupcake?" Amanda stared, aghast, as if the suggestion were on par with putting their children up for sale or starting a dog fighting ring, featuring Frannie vs. Gigi. But slowly, warily, she moved the chilled silver dish onto the table and spread the cupcake liner flat against the plate, the mint chocolate masterpiece blooming from its center. Even missing the hefty bite she'd taken out of its shoulder, the damn thing was gargantuan. So much for those summer abs.

With tentative movements, pausing every few seconds to eye Olivia suspiciously (the captain rolled her eyes right back, delicately suckling the leeward side of her ice cream with guppy lips), she sawed her birthday treat into smaller, more manageable portions. She sat back to examine the results, fork upright in one fist, knife in the other, her mouth slightly agape. Her mind hadn't been this blown since she discovered that Nutella lids contained a plastic shiv for cutting away the foil seal on the jar.

"This changes everything," she stage-whispered, and speared a chunk of the cake, still quite large, on her fork. She gobbled it whole, then chased it with a heaping spoonful of ice cream. The mixture of flavors and textures was unusual, but not unpleasant, as Olivia's scrunched little nose suggested.

"I think you've got a hollow leg." Beneath the table, Olivia nudged the toe of her sneaker against the shaft of Amanda's boot. Her eyes were smiling above the pink and white twist, which her avid tongue had now rounded into more of a marbleized glob. Damn lucky ice cream cone.

"Hollow leg, full heart, little darlin'," Amanda said, in her twangiest Southern drawl. She hooked a boot behind Olivia's calf and stabbed another forkful of cupcake, offering it across the table to the pretty pink lips that were sweeter than anything you could buy in Sugar Mama's. Just then, they were glossy with cream, and it was all Amanda could do not to lean over and lick them clean. "Here, baby, try this. It's really good and there's no melted ice cream on it, I promise."

Olivia regarded the bite skeptically, giving every indication that she was about to turn up her nose in disgust. And she wondered where Matilda got it. But she surprised Amanda by ducking down to accept the wedge of cake and frosting—mostly frosting, which she cleared from the fork by folding her lips to the tines as they withdrew—her head angled like she was drinking from the faucet. "Mmm." She straightened up, eyes brightening at the zesty mint on her tongue, the tip darting out to skim the excess sugar from her lips. Primly, she swiped a comma at both corners of her mouth with one fingertip. "Okay, that it _is_ really good."

"See? I got good taste." Amanda grinned, bumping the side of Olivia's knee with her own, and readied another cake sample for the captain. She hadn't gotten this much entertainment out of feeding another person since Jesse was in a high chair. "Picked you, didn' I?"

"Were there other selections I'm unaware of?" Olivia teased, returning the bump but declining a second bite. She went back to her cone, licking a tad more idly than necessary, if you asked Amanda. It was a mesmerizing sight, all that languid lapping, sucking, nibbling . . .

"Hey, Rocky, thought we came here for ice cream, not soup."

"Huh?" Amanda blinked into reality to find Olivia smirking, lips drawn into a crooked little bow. She glanced to the dish in front of her, and while it wasn't exactly soup, it was definitely softening into a formless lump of chocolate, marshmallow, and nuts. And an unappetizing one, at that. (Put it this way: If Jesse were there, she would have been the first to point and announce to the entire parlor, "That looks like poop!")

"Oh, dang," Amanda said, and shoveled three consecutive—and large—spoonfuls of the ice cream into her mouth.

When the brain freeze finally passed, she studied Olivia quietly for a while, alternately nursing mint frosting from her fork, rocky road from her spoon. She didn't know why, but it was the dainty bite Olivia took from the brim of her sugar cone, chipping it loose with her front teeth, that decided it. That, and her rosy cheeks when she noticed Amanda watching.

"So, I been thinkin' about the thing we talked about the other day," Amanda began, putting aside the fork she had only just realized she was clicking against her teeth. In response to Olivia's quizzically arched brow, she pointed up to the birthday banner strung along the wall and whisper-spelled the word, as if it belonged on the upside down mountain range of pennants too. "Decided we should look into it. Go ahead and give it a shot."

Olivia paused, the cone halfway to her open mouth. She looked neither pleased nor displeased; mostly just caught off guard. Amanda usually wasn't one to broach a subject—unless, of course, it involved food and/or sex—but she had been working on her communication skills for the past few months. The captain deserved that much from her.

"Yeah?" Olivia sounded cautiously hopeful, as if speaking to a wild doe about to feed from her hand. Now her ice cream was melting, a runnel of light pink spilling down the side and over her fingers.

"Mm-hmm." Amanda scooped up the drip with a swipe of her finger and placed it in the groove of her tongue. "We already know I'm good at it," she said, the digit still locked between her teeth. "And it could be fun. That is, if you still want—"

"I do." Olivia nodded with much the same enthusiasm as Amanda had shown for her new jacket, the tattoo, and practically every type of sweet in Sugar Mama's.

Later, strolling to the car with a pink pastry box full of cupcakes for the kids—chocolate for Noah, lemon for Jesse, and carrot cake for "Matilda" (once rejected, it could be enjoyed guilt-free by her thoughtful mommies)—and their bellies bursting, Olivia splayed a hand at the small of Amanda's back, escorting her to the passenger side door.

"Don't you feel kinda bad we came here without the rugrats?" Amanda asked, when she handed over the cupcakes to leapfrog into her seat before Olivia could open the door.

"No, because A, there's no room for them back here," came the muffled reply, as Olivia leaned over to deposit the box in the admittedly small backseat. She stood and gazed down at Amanda with mock sternness. "B, I wouldn't want them to see what you just did and get any ideas."

"And C," she said, after leaning forward again, this time popping a kiss to Amanda's lips. She offered up another envelope Amanda hadn't even seen her retrieve, the little sneak. "Where I'm taking you next is no place for children. Buckle up, sugarpuss."

**. . .**


	4. Hit Me with Your Best Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. Thank you all so much for the comments and encouragement to keep writing these Little Devils. I really needed it. I hope everyone enjoys the last chapter of this fic. I... retooled a scene from last season; it's something I've been wanting to write into the Devilishverse anyway, but the show stole my thunder. Ah well, still fun to write. Hope it's fun to read. :)

* * *

**Chapter 4:** Hit Me with Your Best Shot

**. . .**

_Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, strap on your pistol  
_ _That gun in your hand, my heart goes asystol'  
_ _As a birthday gift, you may think it strange  
_ _But even a sharpshooter should hit the range  
_ _Once in a while, to brush up on technique  
_ _(Have I mentioned how much I adore your physique?)_

The shooting range was a smokescreen. She had taken a page out of the Amanda Rollins how-to manual "Cover Stories and When to Use Them"—there was a whole section devoted to what could conceivably be blamed on a dog—and decided to make her announcement someplace where the detective could be as loud and rowdy as she pleased.

So far, it was going over like gangbusters, and Olivia hadn't even mentioned the promotion yet. It had been difficult not to just blurt it out at Sugar Mama's, while they sat across from each other, gorging on sweets and grinning like a couple of lovesick teenagers sharing a milkshake at a 1950's soda fountain. Then Amanda had taken her completely by surprise with a stealth announcement of her own, and Olivia all but forgot the secret she'd been keeping for the past two days.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. When she floated the idea to Chief Garland, she had fretted he might accuse her of playing favorites, of trying to secure rank for Amanda because of their relationship—which was precisely what she was doing. But not for those reasons alone. Promotion to detective second grade was merit-based, and Amanda had proven herself an exemplary officer time and again. Plus, she had the years in. She deserved the salary bump (a major incentive for Olivia, considering the way their year had started out) and she could flex her leadership muscles by bossing Kat around.

Olivia hadn't mentioned the last two points in her speech to Garland, though she'd caught herself edging towards an impassioned plea under his shrewd gaze. At times, she missed Dodds and their rapport—and his tendency to be a pushover, especially with a certain tall, brunette captain. But after a ten-minute presentation that included examples, quotations, and at least one visual aid (a picture of Amanda with Mandy Fowler, now a campus rape counselor who regularly invited Olivia and Amanda to speak at her university), Garland had silenced her with an upraised palm and simply stated, "I agree."

The next day, Olivia got word that Amanda was on the grid, and a week later the commissioner had approved the recommendation. Olivia had rewritten the next to last riddle right there at her desk, in a flurry of divine inspiration—she was particularly proud of rhyming _pistol_ with _asystole_ , minus the "E"—and now the time had come for the big reveal. She couldn't just undercut it, though. That was Amanda's way: wait till the most ordinary moment and casually give the love of your life an aneurysm.

No, it should be more of a production. And that's how Olivia ended up severing a guy's arm at the elbow.

He was only a paper man, in the form of a B21 silhouette target, but his forearm separated completely from his black sleeve when she emptied all fifteen rounds from her Glock into the circle marked "D2" at his elbow. Normally she went for the "X" at center mass during these little tune-ups at the range, which inevitably turned competitive with Amanda in tow. Even now, the detective was over there pumping her target's gut full of lead, all but one shot a perfect bullseye—that one, she'd purposely put between his eyes. Show off.

Olivia soothed her smarting ego with the knowledge that she had thrown the competition on purpose and her grouping was tight on a small, difficult area to hit. Still, two points per bullet almost wasn't worth it. Why couldn't there be a ninth grade for Amanda to be promoted into, dammit?

Swallowing her pride, she stood back to watch the blonde bombarding the poor paper bastard with her last two bullets. She had to admit, it was a pleasant sight to behold—the laser focus in those blue eyes, that much keener than Olivia's scalpel-sharp precision; the cobralike stance, slightly crouched forward, lean legs steady beneath her, but fluid and poised to strike; the floe of pale hair over one shoulder; the shapely back pockets of those snug Levi's, clinging like a second skin. God bless you, Mr. Strauss.

She didn't make a practice of openly lusting after her detective in public, but they were the only shooters in this lane, the stations on either side of them empty from main lobby door to locker room entrance. The benefit of hitting the range late-afternoon on a weekday, she supposed. There was something to be said for being the boss and letting yourself and your top detective off work early. They had already burned through quite a bit of medical leave and vacation days this year—all the more reason they deserved a few extra hours of fun, just the two of them.

And watching Amanda handle that Glock was very, _very_ fun.

"You really wanted to disable that guy, huh?" the blonde commented offhand, ejecting the spent magazine from her gun, locking the slide in place, and verifying the chamber was empty, all in one deft motion. She placed the weapon lightly on the ledge in front of her, slipped off her earmuffs, and peered around the cement and plexiglass partition between stations. "He get handsy with ya, or somethin'? 'Cause I can take him out, just say the word . . . " She pretended to fire a finger gun, then blew across the tip.

Olivia pulled her lips back in a tight, uncomfortable smile, left arm crossed over her body as she kneaded the shoulder on that side. She shouldn't jinx it by pretending it hurt when today had been relatively pain free, but she was building to something here. A few minutes of playing the weak, helpless damsel wasn't going to diminish her true strength. Besides, she loved seeing Amanda all puffed up and strutting like a peacock when she got to be the muscle in their relationship.

"Guess I'm just feeling a little off today," she sighed, rotating her shoulder and flexing at the elbow a few times, as if she were lifting a dumbbell. She'd hated that part of PT—along with every other exercise it took to restore range of motion. Certain angles were still, quite literally, beyond her reach. "Maybe it's all the rain we've been having."

"Uh, babe, it hasn't rained since, like, last Friday." Brow furrowed, Amanda stepped out of her station and into Olivia's, her expression a mixture of concern and suspicion. Olivia seldom complained about aches and pains, even when she actually had them. And she could probably get a better score performing blindfolded than she had with her fake flare-up, which wasn't even on her dominant side. The jig was nearly up. "Is it really bothering you that bad? Need me to rub it?"

Without waiting for a response, Amanda took over the massage, working her slender fingers deep into the flesh of Olivia's shoulder, marching them around the blade like a band of foot soldiers. _Oh_ , Olivia thought, releasing a lengthy breath. For a moment, she lost herself in the sensation—so good it was almost painful—head lolling forward, stretching the hot, tender skin at the back of her neck. She hissed softly, the tattoo twanging, tighter than a violin string beneath her skin. She really should focus on delivering the good news, but there was no harm in drawing it out a little longer . . .

"It's pro'ly from leaning on your arms for so long at the tattoo parlor," Amanda murmured, her voice swallowed up in a barrage of gunfire from a distant lane. Muffled by the thick cement walls, the popping was just this side of deafening. They had no business being out of headgear, but Olivia couldn't even feel guilty about that when Amanda kissed the ridge of her ear and hummed, "My poor baby."

"Yeah, that must be it." Olivia practically scoffed at her own lackluster lying skills. She had completely overlooked the obvious choice in favor of _rain_. That was right up there with claiming Frannie had eaten chocolate for the nine hundredth time. Fortunately, Amanda seemed too distracted to notice. Nuzzling into the hair near Olivia's temple, she went on administering kisses to her ear, caresses to her shoulder, and grinning when she scrunched the two together in a full-body shudder.

Okay, time to get down to business.

First, she needed to set the scene. With a casual flick of the toggle beside her, she summoned the paper target forward on its trolley. The shadow man glided towards them like a large weightless bird, like the raven perching above the chamber door, a resemblance that always gave Olivia a slight chill. She ignored it now, turning her back to the dark figure, but leaving his elbows—the missing one and the intact D2—in view.

"I may need you to do some of the heavy lifting around the squad room for a while, though." She fixed Amanda with a meaningful look, finding it almost impossible not to grin at the saucer-wide blue eyes gazing up at her; not to pull the slender blonde into a bear hug and calm her fears. Keep it together, Benson.

"Yeah? I can do that." Amanda tipped a single, resolute nod. She'd forgotten about the massage, drawing back a step with her arms folded, her legs jouncing. She looked a shade paler than before.

"Good. Good." Olivia cast a sidelong glance to the target, in what she hoped was the general vicinity of the elbow. She inclined her head in the same direction, trying to draw Amanda's eyes downward, away from her face. "Because I've been thinking about giving you some extra responsibility at work, if you're up for it."

"I am. Whatever you need, darlin'. I mean, Captain." Much like her aim, Amanda's focus didn't waver when Olivia was the target. She had sliced a look to one side, then snapped it right back, faster than a bullet from her Glock. ( _Shot through by gunpowder blue_ , Olivia thought fleetingly; once, many, many moons ago, she'd considered being a poet.) "Is everything okay? You're not sick or something . . . "

"No, nothing like that," Olivia said hurriedly, wincing at the implications. Her little ruse had started to go south, and she was getting a kink in her neck from leaning due east. Subtlety was not her detective's strong suit, whether in practice or in deciphering subliminal messages. "I just have some news for you—good news—and I've been waiting for the right moment to tell you."

"Oh my Lord." Amanda heaved a sigh of relief, a hand over the embroidered scarlet roses on her chest. She swiped lightly at Olivia's hip with the fingers of the other hand. "Next time lead with that, will ya? Damn near gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry, I wanted it to be a surpri—"

"Oh my Lord," Amanda gasped again, this time pressing her palm to Olivia's belly, fingers spread. The other snaked around to splay open at Olivia's back. "Babe, are you tryin' to tell me— are you pregnant?"

"What," Olivia asked, the final consonant colliding with her front teeth, ricocheting around inside her gaping mouth, flying off into space. She worked her jaw uselessly for a moment, before remembering how to close it. When she finally found her voice, it was little more than a squeak: "No! I— _no_. How would I even— Hey, wait a minute . . ."

Amanda was biting her lower lip, shoulders twitching and cheeks glowing with suppressed laughter. She tossed her head back and cackled when Olivia plucked both hands from around her middle, discarding them like rubber gloves just used to clean the toilet.

"And that's how it's done," said the detective, once she'd gathered enough composure to pull off a cocky smirk.

"You suck."

"I'll suck anything you want me to, baby." Amanda sidled closer, hitching her legs like a cowboy in a spaghetti western—or a parody of one—until she was pelvis to pelvis with Olivia, arms lassoing her waist.

"Get off me, you little punk," Olivia said, but made no attempt to break free. Instead, she clasped her hands behind Amanda's waist, peered over her shoulder, as if confirming they were alone, and kissed the tip of her delicate nose. "You ruined a perfectly good surprise. I oughta kick your teeny-tiny ass."

"Tough talk for someone with my bun in her oven." Amanda paddled out a brisk rhythm on Olivia's backside, like she was playing the bongos. It sounded like—or rather, _felt_ like—the theme to _Ghostbusters_ , if Olivia wasn't mistaken. They really needed to lay off the eighties horror for a while.

"You're not putting anything in my 'oven' ever again, if you keep telling me I look pregnant," Olivia said, dryly.

"I didn't say looked. But you said you were feeling off lately. . . you want me to take on more responsibility . . . " Amanda dabbed her lips to Olivia's jawline, trailing kisses that smelled vaguely of mint and cocoa. A kiss for each piece of evidence she listed in support of her highly implausible theory. "Do the heavy-lifting . . . and your shootin' is godawful . . . "

"Does it affect your aim?"

"Did mine. I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn when I was carrying Jess. Little stinker gave me a helluva time, even back then."

"Hm." Olivia caught herself nodding thoughtfully, as if it were something to take into consideration—the possibility that pregnancy might have an impact on her job performance. Not to mention her living performance; she would keel over dead if she somehow got knocked up at fifty-three. "Well, I'm sure if anyone could restore my fertility and impregnate me sans penis, it would be you, my love."

"Aww, you're just sayin' that," Amanda drawled, ducking her head with fake modesty. She popped it back up a second later. "So, what's my surprise?"

Olivia couldn't resist a chuckle. Amanda's excitability was rivaled only by that of their children and Frannie Mae; Gigi took after Olivia, with a much more laid-back approach. "Really gonna make me spell it out for you, huh? I would think a detective second grade should be able to figure out something like that on her own."

For a moment it didn't register, the blonde's expression remaining completely neutral. And then came the dawn, breaking across her face in a huge, delighted grin, as sunshine-gold as her hair. "Seriously? I'm being promoted?"

That smile was infectious, and Olivia beamed in return, her heart swelling, eyes welling. (She'd been thinking in rhymes for days, thanks to those damn clues.) "Yep. The chief wants you to report to One-PP on Friday. Congratulations, sweetheart."

"How long you had that up your sleeve, you ornery li'l sneak? And how'd I even make it on the grid?" Amanda threw her arms around Olivia's neck in a fierce hug, drawing back just as quickly when she heard the hiss and remembered the tattoo. "Sorry," she said, hands dropping to Olivia's hips, twisting them back and forth like a loose steering wheel. "After last year, I didn't think . . ."

The rest faded away, but Olivia filled in the blanks on her own. Last year saw them both fighting to survive a maniac in the woods, and though it was in no way their fault, it had earned them a reputation with some of the brass as "drama queens"—first Calvin, then the brothel shootout, then a complete stranger in the middle of nowhere, then an office romance. "You broads go looking for trouble, or did you just give it your address and a key?" a drunken captain from the two-five had hiccuped at them, during the last Policeman's Ball. If not for Dodds pulling some strings, one of his last major acts as chief, Olivia might not have made captain herself.

And that was to say nothing of last December.

"Well, obviously they thought you deserved it," Olivia said, switching arm placement with Amanda, hers looped behind the blonde's neck. In this position, it looked as though they were slow dancing to the melodious strains of small arms fire. "And they're right. Couldn't ask for a better detective than my little pretty."

Amanda rolled her eyes, but the pride—and the love—shone from them, almost as brightly as the blue. Whoever said red was the color of passion had never looked into Amanda Rollins' baby-blue eyes. There was also a glint of mischief there that Olivia spotted too late: one minute her feet were on the ground, and the next, Amanda bent at the knee, secured both arms tightly under her backside, and hauled her into the air with a small grunt. The second grunt was Olivia's, as she flopped gracelessly onto Amanda's shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

She had quite the vantage point from that angle—the lettering was visible around the rivets in Amanda's back pockets, though not readable without her glasses—but she was too busy reeling, the world literally turned upside down around her, to appreciate it. So she slapped it. "Amanda _oomf_ — Jo Rollins, put me down," she demanded, sounding as if she had developed a spontaneous head cold. She hadn't voluntarily hung upside down since at least her early twenties, and now she remembered why: she hated it.

Nevertheless, she laughed as Amanda paraded her outside of the cramped booth and up and down the lane beyond, all the while hooting ("Woo!"), hollering ("Now who's bringin' home the bacon, baby?"), and carrying on ("—four, five, six . . . " she counted with each smack to Olivia's ass, apparently under the impression that birthday spankings were to be delivered by, not to, the birthday girl).

"Okay, that's it," Olivia called above the increasing numbers and accompanying whacks. "You're demoted. Forget rank, I'm putting you back in uniform." And when that didn't work: "You're fired— I'm leaving you— You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent . . . "

Amanda made it all the way to twenty-five before she began to huff and puff, her considerable strength finally beginning to wane. She leaned forward, sliding Olivia down her front, and setting her back on her feet. A jarring experience on the whole, but tempered by the kiss that immediately followed. Long, lush, enlivening; they soon moved it to the locker room, cutting corners on a few safety precautions, though they properly secured their weapons before getting too wrapped up in each other.

Only when Amanda reached over to lock the door to the empty storage area did Olivia note their surroundings—a length of aluminum benches like you might find in a prison yard; speckled epoxy flooring, the type sometimes used in basements; a hive of drab metal lockers that rattled like chain-link when opened or shut. She couldn't have sex here. She could barely breathe here, and not just because Amanda had her pressed to the wall, hands halfway down her pants.

"Wait. Not here," Olivia said breathlessly, apologizing for the broken kiss and interrupted fondling by pecking at Amanda's cheeks as she zipped her jeans back up. "I know a better place. Come on."

Twenty minutes on the road with a very horny, very impatient detective was an exercise in self-control and tactical driving for Olivia. She managed not to plunge them into a cold, watery grave at the bottom of the Hudson, and they arrived at Pier 57 in a cloud of smoke and screech of tires. (Not really, but that was how Olivia imagined it.) Technically they were trespassing, although the blockade was already shifted aside when they got there, with just enough room for a sleek little Mustang to glide on through—Olivia hadn't even planned that one ahead of time.

Years earlier, the pier had been tapped for renovation, a large structure meant to serve as a marketplace erected on the strand jutting into the river, but the plans had tanked, the building fallen into disrepair. Its back lot stood perpetually empty, folded around the building's far shoulder like a forgotten scarf—inconvenient distance for drivers, the perfect secluded spot for parkers.

It was ballsy, coming here in broad daylight for what Olivia had in mind, but the sun didn't set for another hour and a half. Amanda couldn't wait that long and, frankly, neither could she. The kids were long since home from school, no doubt having the time of their lives with Lucy the Wonder Nanny, but unless Olivia and Amanda gave the young woman a significant pay raise, they probably shouldn't ask her to stick around an extra thirty minutes while they tiptoed off to the bedroom for some "mommy playtime."

Hotel rooms were still a sore subject for both of them, after the last time—after _church_ —so that was a no as well. Besides, Olivia was feeling a little reckless, a little in the mood to show off (once in a while, the detective had that effect on her). The abandoned pier was just risqué enough to satisfy the craving, without getting them arrested for public lewdness. Their only chance of being spotted was a wayward boat tour or a curious rower, and even then, a set of binoculars would be required to get a look at anything really juicy. If someone was that hard up for porn, they deserved a free show. No cameras or recording devices allowed.

"My Lord, you are filthy," Amanda said in a scandalized whisper, even as she slunk on all fours across the flat console between the seats, feral as a bobcat. Her jacket was draped over the headrest of her seat, the word _howdy_ —utterly ridiculous and charming—gleaming in a slant of sun behind her, the fringe dangling like a horse's shaggy mane. And her hair. Her hair was spun gold in the evening light.

"Me? Whose hand had to be physically pried off of whose crotch multiple times on the drive here?" Olivia cocked an eyebrow and a smirk in unison as she settled back against the driver's door, legs extended across the front seats. What it lacked in modern amenities, such as power locks and windows, the pony's vintage interior made up for in simplicity and ease of movement. No pesky armrests, cup holders, or ports to maneuver around; a gear shift recessed below the dash, removing any concerns about impalement; ample room between the steering wheel and seating, especially when the latter was reversed via adjustment lever. It was almost as if the car had been designed with this very purpose in mind.

Olivia wouldn't be at all surprised. "You're lucky we didn't wind up going airborne off the bridge," she added, helping Amanda unfasten her jeans and inch them down her hips. This would have been much easier if she'd worn a skirt.

Ah well, live and learn.

"My vagina's about to go airborne, seeing you in these," Amanda husked, smoothing a hand over the front of Olivia's plum-colored panties. Hers were part of a set too, trimmed in pretty eyelet lace that winked when she shifted her thighs, the bra styled like a halter, a scrollwork of more lace between her shoulder blades. It was a favorite of Amanda's, but she would have to use her imagination with the bra—the agreement was to keep it below the waist, where the doors blocked most of the view.

Of course, they hadn't ruled out a good groping underneath the sweater, and Amanda took full advantage now, with a greedy, sumptuous squeeze.

"Well, you better tell that thing to come back down, because I'm not chasing after it." Olivia reciprocated the squeeze at Amanda's upthrust backside, tugging her close, hands roving over denim, under the skulls and roses button-down. "It's not a balloon and this is definitely not the finale of _Mary Poppins Returns_ that I remember."

Amanda snorted, batting Olivia's hands away as if they were flies at a picnic, disrupting the meal she was working so hard to spread out. She had just slid the satin and lace bikinis down Olivia's thighs, leaving her bare-assed against the warm leather upholstery. Already dripping. It was going to be a squeaky, squirmy ride from here on out. "Quit talkin'," said the detective, and snatched away Olivia's reply with a kiss so deep her toes curled inside her Adidas.

Airborne vagina, indeed.

"Yes, ma'am," she said hoarsely, when Amanda let her come up for air. She slouched back against the door, breathless and smirking, her elbows braced against the seat below. "I mean, Ms. Hot Shot Detective, with your fancy new sergeant's salary."

"Okay, turn over, we're finishing that birthday spankin'. C'mon, assume the position, tough guy." But Amanda grinned as she sat back on her haunches, slapping her thighs briskly, like she was summoning a rather stubborn filly. When that didn't work—Olivia couldn't roll over, even if she wanted to; her legs were pinned solid underneath the wicked thing—Amanda gave a blithe little shrug and plunged in between Olivia's cocked apart thighs.

"Oh fuck," were the last coherent words to come from Olivia's mouth as Amanda used her tongue in ways that didn't seem humanly possible. God, if this was the result, Detective Rollins was getting a promotion every damn week.

Head tipped back against the window frame, fingers sunken into the fleshy, creaking leather, Olivia watched a flock of birds rise like a wave over the Hudson, ebbing and flowing with the river, with the gentle lapping sounds that weren't from the water. She came gazing up into the lazy yellow sky, open and endless, not a cloud in sight.

Turns out, a convertible had been a wise investment all along.

"Lordy." Amanda emerged, looking a tad dazed and wiping her mouth on the inside corner of her collar. She broke into a wide, utterly unhelpful grin as she watched Olivia wiggle her underwear and jeans back into place. Snap, zip. "That's gotta be some kind of record. Next time, speak up though. There's a deaf grandpa in Long Island who didn't hear you."

Olivia sat up a little straighter—wet leather was slippery—and seized Amanda by the waist, tugging until the blonde was straddled at the top of her thigh, knee wedged firmly between it and the other. "Sorry," she murmured, when Amanda winced at the pressure on her hip. The tattoo, Georgia peachy. Olivia had already forgotten about hers.

"Uh-uh. Do it again." Amanda clamped her hands over the window frame, one on either side of Olivia's shoulders, and began to grind, the friction hot and rough through two layers of denim. "This. Okay?" she asked, though Olivia's hands were already assisting, suction-sealed to her tight little ass, guiding the thrusts.

"Yes." Olivia strained for a kiss, strained against the stiff material pressed into her crotch by Amanda's rock-hard kneecap. She did not want to think about _those_ things right now, not while everything was so right. So good. She melted into Amanda's mouth as easily as strawberry-vanilla twist, and this time, when she climaxed—even harder than the first—her detective rode it out with her, forehead digging into her shoulder painfully, enticingly.

For several moments after, the only word Amanda seemed capable of uttering as she snuggled into the gap between Olivia and the seat was: "Whewie!"

"Well. That's one less clue for you to solve," Olivia said eventually, when their breathing had returned to normal, their heartbeats keeping perfect time. She scrunched Amanda tightly to her chest, depositing a warm kiss in the spun-gold hair. "Good birthday, my love?"

"Best I ever had."

* * *

_Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to bed we go . . ._  
_And I'm fresh out of rhymes, go to sleep.  
_ _XOXO_

The envelope was under Amanda's pillow. By the time she read the enclosed riddle, Olivia was snoring softly beside her.

**. . .**

THE END

* * *


End file.
